


Cao Dai Blowout

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, domestic angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-01 15:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8629612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: “Mom says he’s a little like me,” Daniel says, trailing off, prompting, like he wants Frank to offer him information, anything, get Frank’s own take on the man who is also his son’s father.Or, Frank and his son watch baseball.





	1. The Father

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if the answer to the "who's the baby daddy" question will be wes, but i think its probably likely given the arc of the show (and given that wes is the answer to every BIG SHOCKING question so far). And i dont really like the storyline because its, well, its cheap and reductive and its kind of anti-feminist, tbh and so i was trying to get myself to a place where i didnt just kind of hate it.  
> And then well, because i am an angst creature full of sadness and darkness i wanted to take that wessel baby idea and see if it could so someplace i found more interesting. I think the dynamic of frank trying to raise this kid that's his and not his and trying to allow a place for wes too makes me hate the baby daddy storyline a little less. But only a little.  
> And i never sleep and love baseball and here we are.
> 
> This turned into a three-shot because it just got super long and complicated and circular, basically, as are most things in life...

He’s watching the game, trying to keep his cursing to a minimum, keep from getting too loud, too angry, because Daniel is curled tight against his side, asleep, breath coming deep and even and slow, limbs loose and heavy against his side, his outstretched legs.

He’s surprised the boy isn’t awake, the game is tied in the 6th, the Phillies going for a sweep of the Nats and trying to pull off a longshot playoff run and his love for the team is deep and undying the way only an eight year old boy can summon up.

Or at least Frank thought he was asleep because a little voice suddenly pipes up from where his head rests on Frank’s thigh, clearly nowhere near asleep.

“Hey Daddy?”

“Yeah, bud?” he asks, carding his fingers through his son’s thick hair, and the little boy turns, stares up at Frank with wide brown eyes.

“I don’t look like you and mom and Luisa and Sandro,” he states.

“What do you mean buddy?” he asks, even though he knows exactly what the boy’s asking, feels briefly guilty, briefly terrible for putting the question off, even for a moment, even to figure out exactly how to answer, what exactly to say to a boy who is only just beginning to realize how different he looks from the rest of his family, just what exactly that means, to himself, to the rest of the world.

His son frowns, brows pulling together though his eyes remain fixed on Frank. “You an mom an Luisa an Sandro,” he says again. “You all look alike and I don’t.”

“You look like your mom,” Frank points out, nails catching lightly against the boy’s scalp, watching Dan’s eyes slip closed for a moment. “And your siblings.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Frank nods. “You’ve all got the same eyes. Same shape. Noses are alike too. And you’ve got Mom’s ears.”

“Ears?” Daniel repeats with a little giggle as Frank walks his fingers along the shell of his son’s ears.

“Yeah,” he says again. “You and Mom and Lu and the baby have all the same ears. Very cute ears I’ve gotta say. I’m very fond of them.”

The boy giggles again but Frank can see it falter, see Daniel scowl, grow serious. “But my hair,” he says softly after a long moment, like a sigh. “My skin, I don’t look like you guys.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees slowly, cautiously, because he’s not sure he wants to have this conversation with Daniel, not tonight, not without Laurel. “That’s true. Do you think that’s a bad thing?”

The boy’s lips twist. “No. Maybe. I wanna look more like you guys. You’re my family.”

“Course we’re family,” Frank assures him. “Whether we look like each other or not. What’s got you thinking about this, huh?”

His shoulders hitch a little, knees curling up tight against his chest. “Dunno.”

“Someone say somethin’ at school?” he presses gently, doesn’t want to force Daniel to talk if he doesn’t want to, not about this. They’ve always been honest with him, or as honest as they can with an eight year old, but that doesn’t mean Frank wants to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to have to explain how kids can be cruel and hurtful, explain all the things his skin, his hair mean to people who might wish to hurt him, especially growing up with Frank as a father, with Laurel who can pass for white with ease, with Daniel’s pale, dark haired siblings.

His shoulders hitch again. “No. I just want to know. Is it cause I have you and my…and Daddy Wes?”

“I…” Frank stutters, heart lodged in his throat because Daniel’s his son, has always been his son, from his very first breath, before that even, since the minute Laurel let him back into her life, into the life of the baby who was and wasn’t yet Daniel, but he’s not Daniel’s father, not in the way Daniel means right now. He’s raised his son, is the only father Daniel knows, but that doesn’t matter, not to an eight year old wondering why he doesn’t look like the rest of his family. “Yeah, bud, its cause you’ve got me and Daddy Wes too.”

“But Daddy Wes is dead.”

Frank nods. “He is. You feeling sad about that?”

Daniel nods slowly, mouth twisting. “I think so.”

“Do you,” he starts, falters, not really sure what to say, what he needs to say to his son to assure him that he’s loved, completely, by his mother, by Frank himself, by Wes, wherever the kid is, in whatever afterlife there might be. They try, as best they can, to talk about Wes, let Daniel know as much as he can about the man who gave him half his DNA, who died long before he was born, who didn’t even know about Daniel’s tiny fragile existence before he was killed. “Do you want me and mom to talk about him more maybe? Do you have any questions about him?”

“No,” Daniel says after a moment, lips twisting in a way that’s hopelessly Laurel, so similar it makes his heart stutter. “Me an mom talk about him all the time.”

“You want me to talk more about him too?” Frank prompts. “It won’t upset me.”

“No,” the boy says again. “No, you do too, Daddy, we talk about Daddy Wes too.”

“Ok,” Frank tells him. “You wanna talk about him now?”

Daniel shrugs, turns his eyes to the TV for a long moment. “Is that why I look like him? And not you guys?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “He and Mom made you same as Mom and I made Lu and Sandro.”

“But then he died,” Daniel states.

Frank nods. “That’s right. Do you want to talk about that at all?”

Daniel shakes his head, bites at his lower lip, turning back to the TV, watching the Phillies play through two outs, end the inning. When the commercials come on though, he speaks again, voice high and tiny, like he’d been keeping the question in all through the inning, couldn’t resist asking any longer. “He died when Mommy burned her arm?”

Frank nods. They’d agreed to tell Daniel enough of the truth to not be a lie, try to shield him from the worst parts while still letting him know everything he needed to understand, to accept that he will never know his real father, will have only Frank, who loves him, totally, completely, but that Frank’s love may not be enough to fill the loss he suffered. “He and Mommy were in the house when the fire started.”

“And me too,” his son prompts, like he’s reciting a bedtime story he’s learned by heart through countless repetitions, worn like grooves into his heart.

“And you too,” Frank echoes, because in many ways, this is Daniel’s bedtime story, the story of how he lost his father, gained another one, the story of how he came into being.

“But Mommy and me were ok.”

Frank nods again. “You were. You are. Mommy kept you safe but she couldn’t keep Daddy Wes safe.”

“Mommy says _I_ kept _her_ safe,” Daniel corrects firmly, insistently.

“That’s true,” Frank agrees, brushing his fingertips against Daniel’s forehead. He’s more true than he knows, Frank thinks, because Daniel or the thought of Daniel, of what Daniel who was not yet Daniel meant, kept Laurel going in those first horrible months when she was mourning and healing and angry at everyone, everything except Daniel who was not yet Daniel, the only thing she was able to love, care for, though only thing that got her through the pain of multiple surgeries, skin grafts on her burned arm. And as Daniel grew inside her, as Laurel slowly healed, gained back the use of her fingers, her wrist after surgeries and rehab and countless hours of pain, she was able to love more than just the tiny creature inside of her. She was able to love Frank again, and then, years later, the children that came after Daniel. “You kept Mommy safe too.”

Daniel grins, proud and pleased at that acknowledgement before his face falls again. “But why couldn’t I keep Daddy Wes safe?”

“Oh baby,” Frank breathes, hands slipping against Daniel’s scalp. “No, you weren’t even born yet. You kept Mommy safe, you did so much, it wasn’t your responsibility to keep your dad safe too.”

“But what if I could’ve?”

“Doesn’t work that way,” Frank tells him gently, trying to keep his voice light, teasing. “You’re a kid, its Mommy’s job, and mine to keep you safe, not the other way round.”

“But what if I could’ve?” he asks again, sitting up and hugging his knees, leaning hard against Frank’s side.

Frank wraps an arm around his thin shoulders, tugs his thin little body against his side. “Can’t wonder about what might’ve been Danny, you know that.”

“Yeah,” his son says softly, leaning further into Frank’s side, huffing against his skin.

“Danny,” he says firmly, the little boy glancing up, meeting Frank’s eyes. “Buddy, nothing that happened back then was your fault. It was a horrible accident, ok, nothing anyone could do to change it. Not you, not Mommy, not anyone.”

“I know,” he says glumly and Frank wonders for a long moment whether his son really believes him or is just agreeing so Frank will move on. But then he watches Daniel’s eyes, sees the sadness in them instead of anger, instead of guilt, sees the boy chew his lip like he does when he’s trying to conquer some emotion, trying to swallow it down, so much Laurel’s son it takes his breath away.

“D’you miss him though?” Frank prompts.

“I dunno,” the boy admits. “Maybe. I wish I knew him. But I want you to be my dad too.”

“I’m always your dad, kiddo,” he assures Daniel. Its true, Daniel has always been his son, from the very first. He loved Daniel, always, first because the boy was a part of Laurel and he loved Laurel, totally, without reservation, and then, then, he loved Daniel for everything the boy was, loved him for himself, loved everything Daniel was, is, down to every last cell of him.

“Yeah,” Daniel agrees scowling. “But if Daddy Wes had been alive you wouldn’t be.”

“Maybe not. But I’d still love you,” Frank points out, heart clenching painfully, like its been packed tight in a box far too small for it, for all the things he feels. He’s had enough time in the eight years since Daniel made him a father to have thought, as long and as hard as a man like Frank is ever able, about what things would be like if Wes were alive, if he wasn’t Daniel’s father. He knows, has always known perhaps, that he’d still love him, desperately, thrillingly, to the point of madness even. In any universe in which he was allowed to know Daniel, Frank knows he would love the boy, love him with all his heart. Even if he was just Uncle Frank, even if Laurel had chosen Wes, carved out herself a life with him; in any existence in which he and Daniel crossed paths, he knows, down to his marrow, that he would love Daniel. “Even if I wasn’t your dad, I’d still love you to the moon and back.”

“To Saturn and out of the Milky Way and to the edge of the universe and all the way back round again?”

“And all the way back around again,” Frank agrees echoing their familiar exchange, grinning down at his son, the same crooked grin Daniel has somehow learned from him, smirking and confident. Luisa, for all that she’s like him, for all that Laurel calls her him without the beard, she still doesn’t have his smirk, still somehow inherited Laurel’s slow, sad smiles, even when she’s happy. And Alessandro, the baby, has a grin all his own, nothing like anyone else’s. But Daniel, Daniel has his crooked grin, somehow, somehow, even though it defies logic and reason, somehow he does.

“You’d really love me?” Daniel asks. “Even if you weren't my dad?”

“Absolutely,” Frank tells him, wants to do whatever it takes to convince Daniel its true, to erase all the doubts he has, about Frank, about his love. He never wants his son to doubt him, never wants to question that he’s Frank’s son, that Frank loves him, beyond blood, beyond biology, beyond sense and reason and sanity. “I’d love you no matter what. I always have, even before I was your dad.”

His brow furrows, scrubs his hand against he back of his neck, through his thick, curly hair. “When weren't you my dad? When I was little?”

“I dunno,” Frank admits. “I think maybe I was always your dad. Even if I didn’t know it yet.”

“No,” Daniel insists, forcefully, stubbornly, eyes narrowing at Frank, like he’s unsure Frank isn’t hiding something from him, isn’t lying to him. “But _when_ weren’t you?”

“I think it was a lot of moments that made me your dad, I think part of me was your dad right from the start. The second I knew about you, and when your mom let me see you on the ultrasound photo, and when she let me feel you kicking her around like a soccer ball, all those things added up, like puzzle pieces,” Frank answers with a shrug, a wry grin at his son. “And then the second I saw you, second I got to hold you, all tiny and covered in wires and metal bits like you were baby RoboCop or something, and then when your mom said I could help out with you and the first time you smiled at me. I think they all built up to realizing how much I loved you, to me being your dad.”

“But how,” he presses on. “How’d you decide you were my dad?”

“Cause I loved you, cause I’d do anything for you. You an your Ma and your brother and sister.”

“Did you and Mommy talk?” he asks, face pressing softly into Frank’s chest, yawning against his heart. “Did she ask you if you wanted to be my dad?”

“I asked,” Frank tells him, lips again running across his son’s forehead, his hairline. “When you were six months old maybe, still tiny. I was practically living with you guys, helping out with you after Mom had to go back to school, trying to get up with you if you just needed changing so your mom could sleep, trying to do the cooking so she could spend more time with you. And I dunno, one day it just felt right. I wasn’t your babysitter, I wasn’t your uncle, I realized I was your dad, whether anyone was calling me that or not.”

“So you asked if you could be?”

Frank nods. “Yup. Took me a couple weeks to get up the nerve, but I asked Mommy if she’d let me be your dad.”

“And Mommy said yes?” Daniel asks eagerly, lifting his head from Frank’s chest to look at him.

“No,” Frank corrects with a grin. “She said she’d think about it, didn’t want to do anything that’d hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me,” his son says, little nose crinkling as his face pulls into a frown, confusion written over his expression.

“Course not,” he agrees. “But Mom wanted to be absolutely sure, wanted to make sure you had the best dad you could, make sure I deserved to be your dad.”

“Why?” Daniel asks. “Why didn’t she want you to be my dad?”

“I…” Frank starts, stops while he thinks through how to convey as much as he can while still shielding his son from all the anger, the fear, the hesitation Laurel had at letting anyone replace Wes in her son’s life, as his father, so terrified of forgetting him, of reducing Daniel’s father to a footnote if she let anyone else step into the role. And that was never Frank’s intention, never his desire to replace Wes, be anything more than someone who could, who would love Daniel, help shape him into a person who was good and kind and loving, step into the space Wes left in his life, take over where Wes left off, but never trying to replace him, never trying to take what was his, what belonged to him, always. It took them time to come to an understanding, of what Frank could be, who he could be to Daniel, negotiate the terms of Frank’s role in her son’s life because he could never be Wes, should never be Wes, but they both knew, completely, without reservation, that Daniel deserved a father, a living one. “I think she wanted to make sure that you could have two dads, that I’d be ok with that.”

“Then what? Then she said yes?”

“Nope,” Frank corrects, grin spreading wider, teasing the little boy, drawing out the story’s ending. “Then you came along and decided everything for us.”

“I did?” Daniel asks, grinning wide now, splitting his face, the two of them grinning like idiots, twin smirks curling their lips.

“Yup,” Frank tells him, speaking around the thick lump of emotion in his throat. When he thinks that maybe he might’ve lost this, lost Laurel and Daniel, Luisa and Alessandro too, might have gotten a ‘no’ instead of a ‘yes’ from Laurel, might’ve missed all the best things in his life, the things that give him purpose, the things he loves more than he loves himself, it hurts, hurts so deeply, still, he can barely breathe for it. “You started talking before Mom gave me an answer. And your third word after ‘mama’ and ‘doggy’ was ‘dada.’ And Mom was mad for a while, cause she thought I’d put you up to it somehow. But I hadn’t and when she was done being pissed at me, your ma realized she couldn't really say no to you, not ever, and she let me be your old man.”

“So I made you my dad?” Daniel asks, eyes dancing with something like pride, with something like awe and Frank thinks if there were a world where he didn’t already love this boy to the fullest extent of his heart, to every last nook and cranny and crevice of his body that love could be packed into, it would be filled now, filled completely and full to bursting, a cup overflowing its sides.

Frank nods, throat tight with emotion because there’s not a day that goes by that he isn’t grateful to Daniel, for seeing the things in him he couldn’t always see himself, for helping Laurel see them, fall back in love with him as Frank fell deeply, hopelessly in love with her son, stayed madly, dizzyingly, blindingly in love with Laurel herself. Daniel’s the key to everything, always has been, Frank thinks, the glue that ties them together, makes them whole. And Luisa now too, almost four and wild as anything, worshipping the ground her big brother walks on, and Sandro, five months old and quiet and watchful, the three of them the glue that knits his world together, that fill in the cracks and plugs the holes where there used to be only darkness, only doubt and fear and anger. The three of them and Laurel, the stars around which he orbits, the only gods he knows. “You chose me and I chose you.”

Daniel seems to consider that, head cocking to the side like he’s listening for something he can’t quite make out, lets out a quick little exhale. “Cool,” he says finally.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daniel repeats. “Baby me was pretty smart.”

“Current you’s pretty smart too,” Frank teases, knocking his shoulder into his son’s. “But yeah, I think you made a pretty good choice in your old man.”

Daniel laughs, groans, because even though he’s eight, still a baby really, he’s already far too cool for Frank, for Laurel, for the affection they want to shower him with. “Me too though,” he says after a long moment. “I’m glad I picked you.”

“I am too,” Frank tells him. “You and Sandro are my two favorite boys.”

Daniel sighs dramatically, rolls his eyes and they both turn back to the game as the Nats pull ahead, knock in a run on a ground rule double.

“Are you,” his son begins, stops and chews nervously on his bottom lip. “Do you love me as much as the baby or Lu? Even though you and Mom didn’t make me?”

“Course I love you, Danny,” Frank tells him instantly, tugging his son tighter into the crook of his arm, giving him a quick kiss he hopes reassures him without any words. “I love you to the moon and outta this galaxy and all the way back around. You know that, or you oughta or maybe current you’s not half as smart as baby you. You’re my first kid, and that’s something special. I may not’ve made you, but I chose to be your dad and you chose me to be your dad and that’s probably the best thing anyone’s ever done for me. Your siblings don’t have a choice, but you coulda picked anyone to be your dad, and you picked me. And I picked you, ok, Danny? If you ever wonder if I love you, just remember that I picked you too, because I love you more than anything, more than anyone. I love you more than anything in the world, in the whole universe.”

“And all the way back round,” Daniel echoes solemnly. “Is it ok if I miss my other dad? Even though I never met him.”

“Course it is,” Frank assures him, running a hand through his son’s hair. “Course. You can love both of us, you know. Just like you love me and Mom, just like I love you and ‘Uisa and Sandro, you can love me and Daddy Wes.”

“You think he loved me, Dad?” he asks, voice tiny and high, like Daniel’s trying to fight off tears, trying to hold back some emotion.

“Definitely. He loved you all the way back round too, he still does, wherever he is.”

“Mom says he’s a little like me,” Daniel says, trailing off, prompting, like he wants Frank to offer him information, anything, get Frank’s own take on the man who is also his son’s father.

“He was,” Frank confirms. “A little bit. He was quiet and kind and when he loved something he loved with his whole heart, protected it with everything he had. You’re a bit louder than he was, but you’re kind and you love the same.”

“And I have hands like him? That’s what Mommy says anyway.”

“I think you might,” he agrees, taking Daniel’s small hand in his own, turning it over so it rests palm up against his, then letting his son do the thing he likes where he lines up the heel of their hands, compares sizes while Frank curls his fingers inward at the knuckles, traps the boy’s hand in his. Frank’s hands are large and rough and clumsy, made even more so by the difference in size between himself and Daniel, and yet, Daniel makes everything soft, everything smooth over until the sharp edges in Frank, the things that are rough and scraped raw are smoothed over. “And your laugh. That too.”

Daniel hums softly, palm still pressed against Frank’s. “If he was still alive, Daddy Wes, d’you think you’d still be my dad?”

 


	2. The Son

Frank goes very, very still, can tell Daniel notices because he looks up, watches Frank’s face with that same expression Laurel gets, quiet and sharp like he’s focused all his attention on Frank, on the tiny, barely visible movements of his face, the cadence of his breathing, gathering as much information from the silences as he ever could from Frank’s words. Its always startled him about Laurel, her watchfulness, the things she notices, and it continues to startle him in Daniel, especially jarring when the little boy does it, just meets silence with silence as he tries to learn the secrets that other people want to keep hidden.

He rarely sees it in Luisa, too loud, too boisterous, too much like Frank to keep quiet for long, but sometimes he does, like she’s learning a language her tongue is too clumsy for, far harder for her to pick up on than the rapid Spanish Laurel speaks to all the kids, but sometimes he sees it, sometimes he sees his daughter force stillness, force silence on herself, marvels at the insights the almost four year old can have when she lets herself speak this language without words.

And Sandro, the baby, he watches everything, will probably be the best out of all Frank’s kids at the language Laurel passed on in her blood because he’s constantly surrounded by noise, by the chaos of his siblings, by the chatter of a house that already had four people, sits by and tracks everything with his eyes, laser focused on the goings on even if he rarely makes a sound. He’s five months old, Frank’s pointed out, more than once now, more than a few times, and he’s not even making the repetitive babbling noises both his siblings did at that age, not even really making the attempt at talking, communicating with the world. He understands, that much is clear, Frank knows his son understands words and phrases, in Spanish and English both, but speech itself so far remains illusive, remains something Sandro is completely uninterested in. Laurel, calm as ever about the kids, like she knows innately what is worth worrying about, what isn’t, has always just shrugged Frank’s concerns off, assuring him the baby’s fine, will talk when he’s ready.

Frank chooses to believe her, because Laurel’s right about most things, especially when it comes to the kids, but he worries sometimes too, always worries about the three tiny, fragile lives he’s been entrusted with, always, always worries that he won’t be able to protect them from some harm. It’s worse, of course, that he started out behind the eight ball, unable to protect Daniel from the loss of his father, his son entering the world with loss already around his shoulders, wrapping him tight, settling softly against his skin like snow. He doesn’t know the loss, doesn’t feel it the way Laurel did, the way he would’ve if he’d gotten to know Wes, but still, still, Frank knows the loss is there, the absence, something removed from Daniel’s world before he was ever able to see it, like there’s a space in his heart, his mind where only a shadow exists, the outline of some strange creature that his son can never truly see, able only to view the negative space.

It hurts Frank, far less than it hurts Laurel, than it probably hurts Dan, but it hurts all the same, a dull ache that he can do everything right, can protect his oldest boy from everything, anything that would hurt him, and he’ll still have failed, because the hurt’s already there, because its Frank protecting Daniel and not Wes.

Frank was the second pair of arms to hold Daniel, the second that counted anyway, after the doctors and nurses and what seemed like a thousand other people got done with him. They only let Laurel hold him briefly, no more than a few seconds before they were shuttling Daniel away to the NICU, no one admitting that the fire, the pain and grief and worry that followed, were responsible for the baby’s early entry to the world, too much for his tiny, fragile body, but the truth of it written on every face he saw.

He’d been there with Laurel, in the delivery room, not by accident as he’d sometimes dreamt about in those first days after the fire, after the revelation of Daniel who was not yet Daniel, but by her choice. It’d been a long road back, for both of them after everything, neither of them in a place that even resembled good, but by the time Daniel made his unexpected entry into the world they’d gotten to better at least.

The two of them leaned on each other through vastly different kinds of therapies, Laurel’s on her burned arm, Frank on his mind, leaned on each other when their varying griefs became too much, when Laurel wondered how the hell she could ever get through law school, get through another session of torturing her fingers into motion, get through raising a baby on her own when its father was cold in the ground, when she wasn’t even sure she’d loved its father at all, when she was dealing with the loss of her best friend, when Frank was bogged down by the howling doubts in his mind, the temptations to do what was easy and quick and painless, by the voices of the people he’d hurt, the people he couldn’t protect. Slowly, they’d knitted themselves back together, until, by the time there was Daniel, the two of them had twined themselves together so tightly there was no way to tear them apart.

By the time Daniel arrived, months later and still all too soon, they were back to where they were, or almost, when Laurel’s questions about Lila had destroyed their carefully constructed house of cards, the careful fiction they had told themselves, the lies that lay heavy and choking between them. And it was better somehow, because they both finally had the truth, could finally bare all the thing they’d once tried to hide, conceal from each other in the haze of blinding desire that followed them wherever they went. After the fire, after Frank’s return, well, neither of them were in a place to even contemplate wanting anything beyond survival, beyond the basest comforts, the two of them building themselves again from scratch, from the ground up, trying to remember who they were before everything was taken from them, fitting themselves back together like two puzzles with a handful of pieces missing.

What they got back, after the fire, after Frank’s return, was something softer, and stronger, not an unslakable thirst, a unquenchable hunger, a raging fire that consumed itself and destroyed everything good in its path, but something else, something more, still the same wanting, the same need, but built on something deeper, something like faith, not in gods but in each other, and trust and yeah, the seeds of something that grew into something a lot like love, even then, even before they became anything more, again, than friends, than partners, literally, in crime, than two people clinging to each other while storms raged around them, seeking strength, comfort from the other.

And so, when Daniel arrived and then immediately left, off to weeks, but not months of incubators and beeping monitors and wires and tubes, Frank followed, followed Laurel’s pleaded instructions, followed his son who was not yet his son, but perhaps was, even then, and eighteen hours later was allowed to be the second pair of arms that held Daniel.

The second Frank held the little boy, tiny and fragile and more wires, monitors than anything resembling a baby, second he felt the rapid flutter of Daniel’s heartbeats, heard his high shrieking cries, angry, insistent, demanding to be heard, he knew, knew that he was in love with the tiny, dark haired creature in his arms, to an extent he couldn’t really understand, not then, knew that he’d protect him with his life, would do anything for him. He may not have been a father yet, not officially, but Frank had known, even then, what Daniel was, what he was to his son who was not yet his son.

“I don’t know what I’d be,” Frank answers slowly, trying not to let himself think too much, too closely on what Daniel is asking, because it hurts too much to press on for very long. What he’d be if Wes had lived, if Daniel was fully, totally, completely his son and never Frank’s. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know if Laurel and Wes would’ve stayed together, had their own versions of Luisa and Sandro, moved out to California or Seattle or St. Louis, or if the stress of having a baby together would’ve fractured whatever affection they’d once had for each other.

Hell, Frank’s not even a hundred percent sure Laurel would’ve kept the baby, kept Daniel if Wes hadn’t died, if she and the creature that was the once and future Daniel hadn’t been in the fire, both walking away from it damaged but alive, the baby who was not really even a baby having been through so much already, Frank thinks Laurel would've decided it was a shitty time to be having a baby, right smack in the middle of law school even absent Wes’ death and Laurel’s hand and Annalise still looming over them like an angry, vengeful god.

They’ve never really talked about it, whether Daniel would be here had things not gone the way they had, but Frank thinks that its probably true, that Laurel, who never really wanted kids anyway, not till she actually had one, had Daniel, would’ve decided that it wasn’t the right time for one, would’ve snuffed out the bundle of cells that would one day turn into Daniel, this sweet, funny eight year old who loves his mom, his little siblings, loves Frank with all his heart, who loves baseball almost as much, and dogs, but only the ugly ones, the ones with beauty, with something worthy in them only Daniel’s able to see, loves space and mac and cheese and jumping into leaf piles.

But well, that means he’s not really sure what he’d’ve been had Wes remained alive. Hell, things could’ve played out the same except Daniel managed to snag three full time parents, because Frank wants to believe, wants to hope, that in every universe that matters he’s Daniel’s dad, that Laurel and him are Laurel and him, tied together by something stronger than love, something almost like fate, like madness. He hopes, but he doesn’t know.

“I don’t really know what I’d be,” he tells his son. “But I’d like to think, even if I wasn’t your dad, even if your mom and Daddy Wes were your only parents, that I’d still love you just the same.”

Daniel’s silent for a long moment, turns his eyes to the screen, back to the game, now in the top of the 7th and the damn Nats still up by a run. “Did Daddy Wes like baseball?”

“I dunno,” Frank admits, because that’s not really something he and the kid every really got into. Frank thinks he and Asher talked Phillies sometimes, can’t remember if Wes had ever been included, doesn’t think he was. He thinks Wes was more of a casual sports fan in a sports mad town. “You could try asking Mom.”

“I did,” his son admits with a small frown, staring hard at the TV, refusing to meet Frank’s eyes, hand slipping out of Frank’s and crossing over his chest. “She didn’t remember either.”

“I’m sorry I don’t know Danny,” he tells him gently, watching the boy’s breath catch, watching him blink tears away with a scowl, another Laurel expression copied on Daniel’s smaller, darker face, angry, guilty at himself for showing too much emotion, letting himself get upset instead of doing something, solving the problem. But this, Wes, Danny missing Wes, wanting to know the impossible, wanting answers Frank’s not sure anyone can give him, well, that’s not solvable, not really, not by anyone living, and Frank’s not sure what else his son can do besides be sad, be upset that there’s a question about his father that will always remain unsolved, always remain a question, elusive, unanswerable.  But Frank'll try, will always try for Daniel, try to give him some answer that may not be the one he's looking for, not the one he wants, but the only answer Frank's capable of giving, one that'll help, help him know his other father a little better, ease the hurting, the absence inside him just a tiny bit, give him enough to let Daniel be brave enough ask another question, take another step forward as he chases after the ghost of his father, as Daniel tries to give him life again, even if only his son's own mind. “But I think he’d probably like baseball cause you love it so much.”

“But I only love it cause you an me started watching it when I was a baby,” Daniel points out. “When I was in the hospital getting big, learning how to breathe.”

“Nah,” Frank assures him, trying not to think back on those long, tense, terrified, sleepless hours in the NICU with Daniel, while Laurel was still recovering herself, pale and shaky with blood loss, body burning with infection, unable to be with the baby at first, and so Frank spent his days and nights shuttling back and forth between then, two hours with Laurel, two hours with her son, never willing to be away from either of them for very long, terrified that something would happen to them if he left, if he fell asleep, stopped his vigil over both of them for even a single second.

He spent hours introducing Laurel to the baby through photos, videos, whatever recordings he could make, whatever snippets of insight he could provide, trying to convince her that the guilt ripping through her, the fear that she’d failed, already, the baby not yet a week old and she’d already failed him, wasn't true, that she was already the best mother, that she loved him so intensely, had already done so much for him.  Laurel spent weeks certain that she wouldn’t be able to protect her son, from the world, from the loss of his father, from his own too-soon entry into the world, certain that she was cursed, that everything she touched was cursed, her son especially, spent hours in silence and grief, mourning the loss of what might have been, all over again now that the baby was alive and Wes wasn’t, while Frank spent thouse first few weeks trying to show Laurel that Daniel was alright, that he was strong and perfect, like her, that he would get bigger and healthier and that he already loved her with all his heart, that she had already protected him through everything, the fire and Wes' death and the months that followed and the emergency delivery but that everything was alright, finally, thanks to her.

He tries not to think back on the days spent holding Daniel close against his skin, trying not to jostle the baby free of his wires, his monitors, watching baseball on his phone on mute, talking to the baby about nothing, about his day, about Laurel, narrating every play, trying to get Daniel used to his voice, trying to let the baby know he was loved, cherished, that he was strong and brave and he’d be with his mom soon, would soon get to go home. Baseball let him feel like things were normal, that he was just watching baseball with Laurel’s son, just being Uncle Frank, because he wasn’t Daniel’s dad, not yet, just introducing him to ‘man things,’ just spending time with him, hanging out on the couch that was really just an uncomfortable hospital chair, let him forget the constant beeping of Daniel’s oxygen meter, his breathing tubes and feeding tubes and the alarms that would constantly sound when Daniel forgot to keep breathing or when his temperature dipped too low, able to forget that he was sitting there bare chested so that Daniel could feel someone’s skin against his, better hear the heartbeat that brought him comfort, strength. Baseball let Frank ignore the terror in his blood, the pounding in his chest, let him focus on strikeouts and fly balls and line drives, let him learn Daniel in the quiet moments in between. “You’d’ve found baseball without me. Loving baseball’s in your blood kid.

Daniel’s scowl deepens, mulish and so like Laurel when she’s stuck on something, won’t let it go. “No Daddy,” he says firmly, seriously, like he’s trying to make Frank understand something he’s not sure he will, not sure he can. “I love baseball cause of you an me.”

“But you love playing it, that has nothing to do with me.”

He nods, serious.

“I think no matter who your dad was, you’d love baseball,” Frank tells him, certain its true. Daniel’s loved baseball since he was old enough to track the ball with his eyes, not really understanding the rules yet, but loving the pageantry, the duels between pitcher and batter, the signs the base coaches flash, the strategies of bunts and fly balls and pitching in on a batter. “I wouldn’t be too worried about that.”

“Ok,” he says softly, sagging back against Frank’s side as they silently watch the commercial they both hate for a local car dealership. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, Dan?”

“If Daddy Wes was alive what’d my name be?”

“Probably Daniel still,” Frank tells him. “Your mom was pretty set on that.”

“Cause of Uncle Daniel,” his son murmurs, like he’s continuing a story he’d long ago memorized. “Mommy’s brother.”

“That’s right,” Frank says, letting the boy continue on with whatever it is he’s trying to get to the root of, like he’s peeling away layers and layers until he gets down to the heart of things, strips them bare so that only the truth remains.

“He died too, Uncle Daniel,” Daniel says with a yawn against Frank’s chest, breath warm and slow. “When Mommy was little.”

“That’s right,” Frank says again, thinking that maybe his son is falling asleep again, that maybe this line of questioning is over, at least for tonight, and he can grab Laurel, they can talk this through, these new questions, figure out what to tell their son the next time questions about Wes come up, how to address these new thoughts rattling around in his eight year old brain, about death, about how his life could have been different, about who his father was, really, beyond the details they’ve given him; that Wes was kind and smart and loved him, about the ways he’s different from his family, the ways he’s the same. “You’re named after Daddy Wes and Uncle Daniel.”

Daniel nods, grins. “Daniel Wesley.  Daniel Wesley Delfino Castillo.”

“Daniel Wesley,” Frank echoes, his own grin slipping across his face, though he tries not to roll his eyes when he thinks back at Laurel's insistence, when they changed Daniel's name after the adoption, and then when Luisa and Sandro were born, that they follow Mexican naming conventions; Frank's name going first, how much of a headache that's created because the daycare, the schools can't seem to decide which last name the kids should have, the forms suggesting Castillo, he and Laurel and the kids all trying to tell them its Delfino instead.  Its been trouble, but not more trouble than its worth, nowhere near as much trouble than its worth because he loves that the kids have his name, all three of them, and Laurel's name too, they deserve both of them, both their parents' names, and Daniel spent three years with just Castillo, deserves to not have that taken from him, erased completely just because he gained a new name, took on his father's name as well. “That’s you.”

“D’you think she misses him still?” Daniel asks slowly, words almost to the point of slurring with sleep. “Uncle Daniel?”

“I know she does,” Frank replies. “I don’t think she’s ever gonna stop missing him.”

“And Daddy Wes?”

“Yeah,” he answers honestly, because of course Laurel still misses Wes, he knows this, understands it. He doesn’t know how things would’ve worked out between her and Wes, doesn’t know if he’d still have wound up with her had the other man survived, but he knows the depths of their friendship, knows that they understood each other in a way that was powerful and good, two quiet damaged creatures finding their own strength, their own steel, together. And they may not have lasted, Laurel’s admitted as much to him, probably wouldn’t have, because she's admitted she loved Frank, even then, doesn't think they would've lasted even with a child to tie them together, too similar and too well suited as friends to work out as lovers for very long, but they had something, a closeness, a friendship that softened Laurel and made her feel seen and understood, that let her be strong. Frank knows that, is filled with gratitude to Wes for giving that to her, and he can’t be jealous of the pain, the grief she still feels at his loss. Wes was a good man, and whatever else she may have felt for him, felt for Frank, Laurel loved Wes too, loved his friendship and his son deserved to have loved him too, known him, and if they both miss him, grieve for him, well, that's something they both earned the right to. “I know she misses Daddy Wes too.”

“Do you?” Daniel asks, now looking up at Frank, eyes big and brown, eyes Frank loves, eyes he can never lie to.

“I do,” Frank tells his son. He knew the kid, not well, not like Laurel, and his death had hurt, but it’d hurt most because of Laurel, because of the pain she was in, that she’s still in, faded now and calloused over, but still a lingering hurt that she lost her best friend, that her son will never know his birth father, that everything Wes had wanted to do, every dream and goal and idle interest got snuffed out, senselessly. “Because of how much it hurts you and Mommy not to have him around. It hurts me when you guys hurt.”

“D’you know his favorite food?” he asks slowly, picking at a loose thread at the knee of Frank’s pants, tugging until a thread about six inches long comes free, then wrapping the string between his fingers, around and around.

“He liked Chinese food,” Frank says, hoping he’s giving the right answer, not sure if Laurel has offered him a different one. “Spicy Chinese food. And greasy burgers, with onions and pickles and barbecue sauce and tons of cheese, just like you like. I think his favorite ice cream was mint chocolate chip, just like yours.”

Daniel giggles as Frank continues.

“And he was tall, just like you’re gonna be, tall and skinny. Couple years and you’re gonna tower over Mom, she’s gonna have to get on a ladder to give you a kiss,” he says, fingers walking up his son’s sides until the boy giggles again, high and light, breathy, some of the tension, the sadness flowing out of his skin. “And he was terrible at basketball. I remember we all went to a pickup game after work, me and Daddy Wes and Uncle Oliver and Mr. Connor and Asher. And Daddy Wes kept throwing up air balls and double dribbling, like he’d never even seen a basketball before.”

“Mommy never told me that,” Daniel says slowly, smiling tentatively, thoughtfully, though not, Frank hopes, sadly, but like he’s realizing that Frank may be able to offer him a new dimension, a new perspective on the other man who is his father.

“I dunno if she knew,” Frank replies gently. “If you wanna know anything about him that mom might not know, you can always ask, ok? I want you to know that. Mom knows more about Daddy Wes, but I knew him too and I’ll tell you whatever I remember.”

“Do you forget him sometimes?” Daniel asks. “Forget things about him? Mommy says she does, forgets things about him.”

“I’m sure I have,” Frank admits, because he tries, he does, to remember things about Wes, to keep them close and safe and tight to his heart so he can give them, whole and still shining, untarnished, to Daniel, to their son, his and Wes’ both, but he knows there are things he forgets, things that slip through his fingers like beads of water, that always dance away out of the reach of his fingertips, no matter how he tries to keep them safe for Daniel.

That’s the true tragedy in death, Frank thinks, that much as he and Laurel may try to hold onto Wes, keep him static in their minds, keep every memory of him they had safe for Daniel, to pass along to Daniel, time keeps stealing in, keeps slipping in through the cracks like a thief in the night, taking one item at a time, not big things, big memories, the equivalent of the TV or the couch, but little things, a box of cereal here, a mug there, until there’s nothing left but the big things, until all Frank can remember is basketball games and greasy hamburgers, can’t remember if Daniel’s eyes are the same color as his father’s, can’t remember if Wes had been left handed like Daniel, can’t remember if he liked comedies or space or dogs. “I know mommy wrote as much as she could down for you, and I helped too. But I’m sure we forgot some things, and I’m sorry for that, ok? We try to remember as best we can for you.”

The boy nods solemnly. “Mommy says its hard, not forgetting. Its like practice she has to do every day, but even then, she forgets things.”

“Yeah,” Frank tells him. “It’s a little like that. Like how you can keep up with your schoolwork over summer break, but you still forget a bunch of stuff when you get back to school in the fall.”

Daniel nods solemnly. “Like how I’m not gonna forget how to read, but I might forget some big words?”

“Just like that,” Frank agrees.

“That’s really sad, Daddy,” he tells Frank, voice small. “People aren't words. People are people, we should be able to remember them better.”

“We should,” Frank agrees, heart breaking for his son, because he has so little, so little to remember Wes by, less and less with every moment. Laurel tries, of course she does, and Frank too, the one thing he can do for the man who is his son’s other father, for the son they share, but its hard, knowing what to remember, trying to anticipate what Daniel will want to know, keep those memories safe, keep them whole, at the expense of others. Daniel has only what they can give him, pitiful crumbs, pieces of a half finished puzzle that will never give Daniel the true picture of his father, never be anything more than hazy, clouded, distorted pictures, like they’ve been warped by rain, sun, left out in the elements. “But I think it helps, maybe, helps us move on, keep living. We remember what we can, what we need to. And as time goes on, we don’t need them so much anymore.”

“But I don’t have anything, just what you and Mom still remember. What if I need more than you have?”

“Oh Danny,” he whispers against the boy’s hair, swallowing down the lump of something like grief that rises, thick and choking and hot in his chest. “I know you’re gonna want more than mom n me can give you. You’re gonna want to know everything, and if we could give that to you we would. But we can’t, and I’m really sorry for that.”

“I know Daddy,” he whispers, knuckling angrily at the tears that spring to his eyes. "It's ok."

“What d’you wanna know that we can’t tell you?” Frank asks gently. “We can see if anyone else remembers.”

“I dunno,” Daniel says with a little mulish shrug. “D’you know his favorite book? Would he have liked the new Star Wars?”

“His favorite book was _Moby_ _Dick_ ,” Frank answers, because that at least, he has the answer to. “Your mom has his copy upstairs for you, when you’re older. He wrote notes in the margins, I think you’ll like some of them.”

“And Star Wars?”

“Yeah, I think he’d probably like Star Wars too. Probably like Poe, just like you do.”

“I wish I knew him,” the boy says then, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“I wish you did too,” Frank tells him, thumb catching the wetness against Daniel’s cheekbones, sharp like Laurel’s. It’s true. He wishes his son had known Wes, known his birth father, wish there wasn’t a deep hurt to his boy, a sadness he can’t shake, wishes that there was another person who loved Daniel without reservation. “You deserved to have known him.”

“But I’m really, really glad you’re my dad.”

“That so?” Frank asks him, grinning until Daniel copies him, grins small and crooked through his tears, trying to ease the sadness in his son, somehow, somehow.

“Yeah,” his son nods, seriously. “I’m really glad you chose me, that I chose you. I think even if Daddy Wes was alive I’d still want you to be my dad.”

“You don’t have to choose though,” Frank says, tugging him closer into his arms. “You’re allowed to love both of us, you know that, you’re allowed to be sad that he’s not around.”

“I know,” Daniel tells him. “I do. But I’d still want you to be my dad.”

“Alright,” Frank says, always trying to be conscious, careful that he makes sure he acknowledge Wes, makes sure Daniel knows there’s always a place for both the boy’s fathers, never trying to diminish Wes, make himself more just because Frank’s there, living and breathing. “Cause I’d wanna be your dad too. No matter what. Who else is gonna watch the Phillies lose with me?”

“They’re winning now,” Daniel points out.

Frank turns his eyes to the TV, just in time to see the homer fly into the outfield seats, the runner on first heading to second, third then home, batter lifting his arms high. “You knew that shot was a homer?” Frank asks.

“Course,” Daniel shrugs. “Bat always sounds different when it’s a homer.”

Frank laughs. “I’m sorry Danny, but that I don’t believe one bit.”

Daniel giggles too, brushes the last of his tears from his cheeks. “Its true though, Daddy.”

 


	3. The Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Laurel puts in an appearance, because, well, why not? Just about everything benefits from more Laurel...

There’s a creaking on the stairs then, and Laurel appears, Sandro held tight against her shoulder, the baby making little chirping cries of dismay; hungry, Frank thinks, because that's another thing fatherhood's taught him, that babies make different cries, that those cries mean something, their own strange language without words.

“Someone decided he didn’t want to miss the game,” Laurel says, thumb tracking between the baby’s thin shoulder blades, pressing feather-light kisses against Sandro's cheek, the downy softness of his hairline, trying to calm his cries as she steps into the room. “Wanted to come hang out with his favorite brother.”

“Hey,” Frank calls as he and Daniel turn in tandem to watch Laurel, watch the baby, both of them instantly taken in by the sight of her, the game all but forgotten. Frank loves her, still, always, after all this time, doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop feeling the catch in his throat, the disorienting flip in his stomach when he sees her, every time, even just walking into a room, even just wearing one of his flannels, oversized on her thin frame, slipping off her shoulders and a pair of black leggings with a hole at the left knee. He’s loved her from the first, hopes he loves her till the last. And Daniel, well, Daniel worships Laurel in a way only a child can, the two of them sharing a bond, an understanding so deep he can’t quite understand it but loves, fully, the things that only they can share. “Come watch the game.”

“Hi Mommy,” Daniel echoes. “They’re winning now.”

“They are huh?” Laurel asks, coming over to kiss Frank, kiss Daniel, let Frank press his lips against the baby’s forehead, let Daniel try mugging at the baby, try to calm him with his strange, funny faces, before settling against the couch and putting Sandro to her breast, stopping his cries, giving Frank a wry grin over the top of Daniel’s dark head, like they're sharing some secret, the mysteries of their son, a strange hidden world only the two of them have been allowed to view.

“Yup,” he tells her, grinning wide and shifting from Frank to rest his head against Laurel’s body, grabbing her left hand so he can play with the ring on her finger, still new enough it continues to fascinate Daniel, his sister, barely eighteen months since he and Laurel got hitched, after dancing around each other for almost two years, until just after Daniel’s first birthday, when they fell into bed together like two idiots who kept calling a river in the desert a mirage, allowing themselves to die of thirst, deny themselves what they needed, craved because it was easier than letting themselves believe their was something good, something that could save them just within reach, denying what they both knew they felt, the hard truths they fought desperately to avoid, after Frank, as he told his son, had been living with Laurel and the baby since Daniel was released from the NICU, after six years together after that, two kids, which later became three, after buying a house and getting a dog who was suspicious, at first, of everyone but Laurel, after being as good as married since even before they considered the second baby who eventually became Luisa. Daniel twists the ring on her finger, round and round, soothingly and Laurel’s smile goes soft, tender as she watches her two sons. “They’re gonna sweep mom.”

Laurel laughs. “Looks like it.”

“They’re gonna make the playoffs too,” Daniel states with certainty, because he’s eight and because he believes, every year, that the Phillies won’t let him down again. “This year they’re gonna do it.”

Laurel hums, because Daniel has assured them of this since he was old enough to talk, old enough to understand the playoffs, the postseason, the long-shot odds the Phillies faced every year.

“They are,” he insists. “I know it. Cause Sandro was born on opening day, remember? And he loves the Phillies, just like me and Daddy, and they won, and they never win on opening day. And they’ve never gotten to the postseason, ever since I’ve been alive, but I’ve never had a little brother before either.”

  
Laurel chuckles, meets Frank’s eyes over their son’s head, eyebrows raised as she tugs Daniel close to her, as he curls his body into hers, his other arm circling around his tiny brother, fingers brushing soft against Sandro’s arm. “You and Sandro gonna get them to the World Series too?”

“Dunno,” Daniel confesses, turning to look over at his brother, grasping his tiny hand in his, thumb passing over his tiny baby knuckles. “Sandro? We going all the way this year?”

The baby swings his eyes to Daniel, watches him as his tiny mouth continues to nurse against Laurel’s breast, watches his brother with worship in his eyes.

“That mean yes?” Laurel asks as Daniel releases his brother’s hand, snuggles tight against his mother.

Daniel nods. “Yeah, think so. Hope so.”

“Lets just get through this game first huh?” Frank proposes, tickling Daniel’s side. If there’s one thing he’d forgotten about being a kid, forgotten entirely until Daniel, it was how throughly children believed in things, in impossible, wonderful things like Daniel's certainty of a Phillies win in the face of a decade of losing records, like his faith that every dog he approaches will love him, even though he reluctantly complies with Laurel’s rule that he must ask first before petting them. Somehow, somehow, despite everything, Daniel still has complete confidence in the goodness, the rightness of the world and Frank hopes, desperately, dizzyingly, that he can shield Daniel from the truth of things, keep him believing that the Phillies are bound to win this year, that the loss of his father before he was born will be the worst thing he suffers in his life.

It’s been easier with Luisa, will be even easier with Sandro, Frank thinks, to remember the faith, the confidence of children, Daniel being the first, his test case, jarring loose all the long dormant memories in Frank’s mind of the same things, belief in the Phillies, the Eagles, belief in impossible, improbable dreams; being an astronaut, being President. Until Daniel, he would’ve thought any kid was dreaming, dreaming big, but dreaming all the same, but with his son, with his children, well, he’s not so sure they’re not prophecies, not certainties. He thinks if Daniel wanted he could be the first former-astronaut president, could be anything he damn well set his mind to, thinks sometimes that when Daniel says the Phillies are gonna win, the universe sits up and listens and pulls off an improbable win for them, never a playoff spot, but an extra win or two.

And he wants to protect that faith, with everything he has, wants Daniel to never doubt his beliefs, never doubt that the good things he wants in his life are possible, they may take some hard work, may require some late nights and some complaining, but he wants Daniel to know he can be, do, dream anything.

They watch the game together, the four of them, only Luisa missing, upstairs dreaming her strange three year old dreams, Daniel still playing idly with Laurel’s ring as she nurses the baby, his dark hair nestled against her side.

“Hey mom?” Daniel asks finally, somewhere in the top of the 8th.

“Hey Daniel?” she echoes.

“Daddy says that I picked him.”

Laurel hums, turns and meets Frank’s eyes, a question in her glance. “What do you mean, _mijo_?”

“When I was little,” their son goes on, snuggling further against Laurel’s side, like he’s seeking out her heart, burrowing beneath her skin. “Daddy says I chose him. To be my dad.”

Laurel nods slowly, a sudden tightness in the corners of her eyes, her jaw. She doesn’t look upset, Frank thinks, though he worries that’s it at first, decides against it when she turns away from them, blinks rapidly as she swallows hard, throat bobbing. “That’s true,” she tells him. “You an dad, you had it figured out before I did. You guys chose each other.”

Daniel looks up at her, eyes swinging to Frank then, his smile wide and pleased that Laurel’s confirmed what Frank told him, pleased that he got the truth from his father. “He said that even if Daddy Wes was alive he’d love me anyway.”

She hums again, threads her fingers through Daniel’s smaller ones, tightly, like she wants to hold him close, keep him near. “I think that’s true too. Daddy loved you from the first second he saw you, I think. You’re pretty easy to love.”

“Would you choose me too?” he asks. “If you weren't already my mom?”

“Course Danny,” she tells him, placing a quick kiss along his temple. “I wouldn’t trade you in for any other kid. You’re mine, whether you like it or not.”

“I like having you as a mom,” he says softly. “You an Dad.”

“What’s got you wondering about that, _mijo_?” she asks him gently.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Just wondering.”

Her eyes swing to Frank, hoping he has some insight.

“We were talking about Daddy Wes,” he offers, leaving as much as he can unsaid, leaving it open for Daniel to say more if he wants, leaving the door open for their son to explain.

“Yeah?” Laurel asks her voice soft, inviting, deciding to take the same tack, leave the door open for Daniel to say more, if he wants, but not pushing him, because they both know, all too well, that like Laurel, he’ll go silent, go internal if he’s pushed to speak before he’s ready.

Daniel nods. “Uh huh. How I don’t look like you an’ dad and the baby and ‘Uisa; cause of Daddy Wes.”

“What’re you talking about?” she teases him softly, fingers catching at his knobby knee until he giggles. “You’ve got my ears, my nose too. You can’t say you don’t look like me.”

“Daddy said that too,” Daniel announces, grinning wide. He reaches out, tickles the baby’s tiny feet, finger whispering against the arch of his foot until Sandro kicks out, squirms in Laurel’s arms.

“Cause its true,” Laurel tells him, smiling softly at her two boys, at the bond they share, already. “Maybe my feet too, if you really got unlucky. We’ll tell when you finally stop growing.”

“Is it ok though?” he asks, still staring intently at Sandro’s toes, thumb now slipping against his pudgy ankle. “That I look a little different? Not my nose, or my ears, but my hair and my skin and I’ve got Daddy Wes’ hands too. Is that ok?”

“Course its ok,” they both reply, instinctively. He and Laurel have probably had hours of discussions about how they’re going to deal with Daniel’s questions, about why he looks different from the rest of the people he loves, about what they’ll do if someone teases him about it, about the fact that he has a different father from his siblings, and of course, if someone says something hateful because of the way he looks. That doesn’t make it any easier and they both know more and more questions like these are coming, tried to prepare for it.

They’ve tried, so far, to explain what they can, reassure Daniel that even though people see his differences first, see the obvious things that set him apart from Laurel, from his siblings, he still looks like them, tried to point out the things that are the same, give him the connection to them other people sometimes make it hard to see. And, most importantly, they’ve tried to let Daniel know that its ok that he looks like Wes, that its something good, even if not everyone can see that at first, that looking like his birth father is something to be proud of, something he should cherish.

“You’re the cutest eight year old around,” Laurel tells him, wrapping her free arm around his shoulder, tugging him close enough she can kiss his cheek. “Wouldn’t be quite so cute if you looked different.”

“Yeah,” Frank nods, taking Laurel’s cue and continuing on, because they can both see the tentative little smile that cracks Daniel’s face, slow, fragile, like shoots breaking up from beneath frosted ground. “Definitely wouldn’t be so cute if you looked different. Imagine if you were blonde? Curls like yours, you’d look like a child of the corn.”

He lets out a quick, startled giggle, eyes swinging to Frank. “Child of the corn?”

“Yup,” Frank nods. “Creepy little killer kids, you don’t wanna look like one of those. And think about if you were tiny like Mommy instead of tall? You’d hate that, I bet.”

Daniel giggles again, looks up at Laurel, cheek resting against her side.

She rolls her eyes at Frank, looks down at their son, tries for stern, but her expression softens at his grin. “I’m not that short,” she tells Daniel, sticking out her tongue as he copies the gesture. “Dad’s just being mean.”

“Are too,” he mumbles around his tongue.

“Well then aren't you glad you’re probably gonna be tall like Daddy Wes?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And if anyone says you don’t look like Dad, just show them your smile,” she tells him.

“What?” Daniel asks, eyes swinging to Frank in confusion, as though he’ll be able to explain. Frank can’t help the surge or pride, of love, of awe that charges through him, though every inch of him until it settles in his fingertips, at the way Daniel looks to him for reassurance, for an explanation, trusts Frank to have the answers, to tell him the things he needs to know. Before Daniel he’s not sure he could have imagined this, a creature, his son, relying on him so fully, totally, not sure he would’ve wanted it. But now, well, now he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, for the looks that all three of his kids give him, like he’s someone that will always keep them safe, always find the right answer.

“You and Dad have the same smiles,” Laurel tells him, fingers trailing across the curve of their son’s face until the boy grins, teeth shining. “Those crooked smirks you both have. Just show that to someone who says you don’t look like him.”

“What?” Daniel asks, showing off his smile for when he comes home with an A on a school project, or helps turn a double play that ends the inning. “This one?”

“No way,” Laurel tells him, shaking her head. “The one you get when you’re waiting to tell me some new joke, or when Daddy says you can stay up and watch the end of the game with him. The one you give Sandro when he stops crying when he sees you.”

And then Daniel grins, his practiced crooked smile, cocky and confident and so much like Frank’s own. He may not be Frank’s son, not by blood at least, but he knows Daniel’s his kid in every way that matters, his first one, the one he chose, that chose him, saved him, and he hopes every day, hopes with every beat of his heart, he can do the same for his boy.

“That’s the one,” Laurel tells him, her own smile blinding and wonderful. “Just like Daddy’s.”

Their son’s grin grows wider, eyes swinging to Frank’s face, studying his smirk.

“Here,” Laurel says, fumbling in her pocket till she pulls out her phone. “I’ll show you.”

She turns, clumsily with Sandro still in her arms, until the baby squawks in protest, but snaps a quick picture of Daniel’s grinning face, Frank’s positioned just over his shoulder, twin smiles setting their eyes, brown and blue, dancing.

“See,” she tells him, passing the boy the phone, watching as he regards it intently, eagerly, hoping he can see the similarity between them, the little thread of connection that ties them together as family.

“Yeah,” Daniel says finally, voice a little breathy, high, like he’s almost shocked by it. “Yeah. Daddy,” he says, passing Frank the phone. “We smile the same.”

Frank chuckles. “Yeah, bud,” he tells his son. “We do.”

And they do, they always have, the picture Laurel’s taken no surprise to Frank, even though its always been a little shocking to him that Daniel has his smile, makes him feel like maybe gravity got a little thinner, like he might go tumbling off into space because somehow there’s a boy who he loves, who he chose, who chose him, who has his smile, twins, mirror images of each other, even though there’s no reason in the universe why that’d be true.

“But even if we didn’t,” Frank tells him. “I’d love you all the same.”

“I love you,” he says then, yawning wide. “You an Mom. I’m glad you’re mine.”

“I’m glad you’re mine too, _mijo_ ,” Laurel tells him. “You’re my best boy, you and Sandro.”

“Daddy?” Daniel asks. “You glad I’m yours?”

“Of course Danny,” Frank tells him. “I’m definitely glad you’re mine.”

“To the moon?” he murmurs, snuggling tight against his mother’s side.

“Of course,” he replies, reciting the familiar litany to Daniel. They’d started it when Daniel was barely more than Luisa’s age, asking how much his parents loved him, demanding if they loved him all the way to Paris, or to Japan, or Timbuktu, each destination getting farther and father away till it left the earth entirely. They only stopped the endless questions when Frank had thought to tell Daniel that he’d love him to the edge of universe, so far away it’d curve back in on itself, returning to them, a giant loop, forever and ever, unending. “To the moon and past Saturn and the Milky Way and back around again. Forever and ever.”

“All the way back around,” Daniel nods seriously. “More than the Phillies?”

“And the Eagles and the Flyers and the Sixers too,” he promises Daniel, rolling his eyes as the boy grins crookedly, his eight year old definition of undying love only understandable through sports, through the teams that disappoint him year after year, returning to them again, hopeful and wanting. “More than all the stars.”

Daniel hums, smiles sleepily against Laurel’s side, burrows further against her skin, curling his tiny feet against Frank’s thigh, slipping between his leg and the couch cushion, seeking warmth, seeking comfort and protection and love.

“Don’t go to sleep on me now Danny,” Frank murmurs even as he sees his son’s eyes slip closed, Laurel grinning over the top of the boy’s head, sadly, wistfully but laced through with affection. “Only three outs away.”

“They’re gonna win,” Daniel slurs, curling tighter between his parents.

“Yeah?” Frank asks. “You know that for sure?”

The boy nods softly. “Same way I knew it was a homer. Same way I knew you were my dad, even before you were, back when I was little.”

“Yeah?” he asks again, one hand curled soft around Daniel’s ankle, stroking at his skin till his son hums in pleasure, soft and loose, practically asleep now.

“Mmmhmmm,” Daniel confirms slowly.

“You’re right,” Frank confirms, though he’s not sure his son’s awake to hear it. “Every atom of me’s loved every atom of you, right through from the Big Bang, searched for you all across the universe and millions of years until they finally found you.”  
He shares his son with a ghost, a ghost who he owes a debt he can never repay, for giving him his son, for giving him this life, the shadow, the specter of Wes Gibbins haunting every move Frank makes, ever decision he comes to, not just the ones he make as a parent, but every single choice he’s faced with, they all effect Daniel, and Luisa and Alessandro and so Frank is careful, measured, because he owes that to his son, to his other children, owes it to his wife, and yeah, he owes it to the ghost of his son’s father. He’s a haunted man, will be till the end of his days, but that’s another thing that Daniel and Wes and Laurel have taught him, that being haunted isn’t always bad, isn’t always something to fear, to run from.

He wants to be haunted, never wants to forget that he owes Wes something priceless, owes him his son, his life, owes the ghost of this man he never really knew a life for the son they share that is perfect, that is painless, that is filled with love and support, the price he pays, the debt he’s under for being given his son, repaid by ensuring that Daniel is happy, or as close as humanly possible, that he becomes a good man, that Frank, the father that never deserved to be one, is everything Wes could’ve, should've, would’ve been, had he lived. He is haunted by the burden of trying to be the best father, best husband, best person he can be, to be a man his children can be proud of, a man that Laurel deserves, but it is not something he fears.

Every day he faces the ghost of Wes Gibbins, every time he looks into the eyes of the son they share, finds them staring back at him, warm and dark, the color of coffee, and filled with love, with laughter, with admiration for Frank, his father, and every day Frank faces that ghost and knows, down to his bones, down to the steady tattoo of his heart, that he has done his best to repay that debt. He’s not perfect, will never be perfect, will never be able to give Daniel a perfect life, but he and Laurel, they do a pretty damn good job with what they have, and he’s certain, as certain as he can be, that it wouldn’t matter if Daniel was his son or not, wouldn’t matter what name they gave to what he feels for this smart, funny eight year old with a crooked smile and long, thin fingers, Frank knows that the deepest, best part of himself is supposed to be here, in this moment, and nowhere else, is supposed to be a father to this boy, these boys and the little girl sleeping upstairs, a husband to this woman who loves him beyond what he deserves.

In every universe that matters, he wants to be this man, this version of Frank Delfino, doesn’t want to be anywhere else, doesn’t want to love anyone else, he knows, certain, that every atom of him was supposed to be here, in this moment, with these people, but only because of the work of the ghost who shares his son.

He meets Laurel’s eyes, shining with tears though she tries to blink them away, fingers still carding through Daniel’s hair.

“You too,” he tells her giving her a crooked smirk. “Took me a while to find you, but I’m glad I did. I’m glad I love you, with every part of me. You and the kids. All four of you.”

“How d’you know it wasn’t me?” Laurel asks, soft and teasing. “That I wasn’t the one that found you instead.”

“You probably were,” Frank admits, wishing they didn’t have the boys lying between them so he could lean over, press his lips against hers. “You’re a lot smarter than me after all.”

She laughs quietly, reaches out and takes Frank’s hand, threads their fingers together, smiling the soft, weighty smile he thinks he loves most of all.

“No,” Daniel’s voice sounds from below them, rough with sleep, reaching out and covering his parents’ joined hands with his own, smaller, darker, but theirs, always theirs, the hand of the boy they both love. “I chose you, both of you. And then you chose each other.”

Its not true, or at least not entirely true, but its close enough, and its honest, because he and Laurel had chosen each other once, before Daniel, chosen each other and then destroyed the fragile little thing they’d created, set it on fire or drowned it or chopped it into pieces and pretended it hadn’t hurt, hadn’t killed them too. But Daniel, their son, he brought them back together, even before he was Frank’s, before he was Laurel’s too, really. Its not the way Frank would have expected things to go, nowhere near what he would've predicted from his life, the way things would play out, but Daniel, his and Wes and Laurel’s son, has given him everything he never knew he wanted, everything he knows, now, he couldn’t live without, doesn’t want to live without.

Daniel chose them and it had allowed Laurel and Frank to choose each other, again, find their way back to each other and become this, these people, who are angry sometimes, and sad, who hurt sometimes and who aren’t perfect, are far from perfect, but who love, totally and completely, perfectly, who love each other and love Daniel, love Luisa and love Alessandro to the edges of their hearts, the edges of the universe. And all the way back around.

**Author's Note:**

> So, in fact, the universe is probably flat, or at least that's what science tells us. But, just like monkeys and typewriters, anything is possible when you're working with infinite scales. So, all that is to say that for the purposes of this fic, given teh infinite nature of the universe, we're supposing the universe curves back in on itself. Eventually.
> 
> Title taken from the Mountain Goats song of the same name, which is maybe a song about accepting that you're haunted and accepting the ghosts that are doing that haunting.


End file.
